


Take My Hand and We'll Make It

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes three days for the pain to stop and another four before Sam is strong enough to get out of bed. Dean is there to take care of him. [reposted, first posted on livejournal 22/5/2013]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take My Hand and We'll Make It

The first three days, the pain doesn't seem to get better.

Dean drives them back to the bunker as fast as he can, Sam bundled up in two jackets next to him, sweaty and shaking, whimpering every time the pain goes up a notch. Dean is almost glad when Sam passes out after a couple of hours, except that Sam gets so fucking still a few times that Dean stops the car to check his pulse. 

Kevin is still at the bunker, and he helps Dean carry Sam inside. When he asks Dean what's going on, rambles about the bunker shaking, alarms, and that he heard on the news that people are freaking out, Dean tells him he doesn't know, doesn't care. 

He barely leaves Sam's side those first few days. When Sam is awake for more than a few seconds, Dean makes him drink water, keeps up a steady stream of soft, reassuring words. He tried painkillers at first, but they weren't doing anything, and eventually Dean gave up. Instead, he wipes Sam's sweaty forehead with a cool cloth and keeps Sam under a pile of blankets. 

"You'll be okay, Sammy," he murmurs, and it's more for himself than for Sam. Sam only shivers in his sleep and Dean clasps Sam's hand a little tighter in his.

+

On day four, Sam starts getting better.

He stays awake a little longer, his eyes a little clearer. When Dean asks him how the pain is doing, he only grimaces, but he reaches for Dean's arms, clutches it, and gives him a weak smile.

"Stay," he murmurs, and Dean snorts softly, because Sam should know that Dean never had any intention of going anywhere.

"You got it, Sammy," he replies anyway.

+

Castiel calls on day five.

It makes Dean breathe a little easier, knowing Cas is alive, is okay. He listens to Cas recount what happened in heaven, listens to his plans to find a way to fix things, and then says, "Sam's not doing too well."

 _I can't help you_ , he means. Or maybe, _I don't want to._

He wanders back into Sam's bedroom after hanging up. Sam is still fast asleep, breathing a little easier than he was a few days ago, face pale but relaxed.

Dean lies down next to him, on top of the covers, and closes his eyes. 

When he wakes up again, Sam has his face buried in the crook of his neck, every exhale hot and damp against Dean's skin. 

Dean doesn't move.

+

A week after he carried Sam back into the batcave, Dean makes a pot of chicken soup. Sam manages to sit up with Dean's help and eats half a bowl, and Dean can't keep a stupid, proud smile off his face.

+

"Your mattress sucks ass," Dean says the next day, lying next to Sam and staring at the ceiling.

"You could always go sleep in your own bed," Sam replies, voice still a bit rough and scratchy.

"Yeah, I could," Dean replies, but doesn't move. Sam shifts until his head is pillowed on Dean's shoulder, his arm around Dean's waist.

"Tomorrow, maybe," he says around a yawn, and Dean nods.

"Maybe," he agrees. He turns his head a little, lips almost brushing against Sam's forehead, and stills. He thinks about it, about leaning in just the tiniest bit, pressing his lips to Sam's skin, but he doesn't move.

+

The thing is, things between them are complicated.

It started the day Sam told him he was going to go to college and Dean grabbed him by the shoulders, wanting to shake the thought right out of him. Instead he kissed Sam, hard and desperate, before he pulled back, punched a hole into the wall next to Sam's head, and then stormed away.

He spent the next four years thinking he'd probably fucked things up between them beyond repair.

And then, two weeks after Jess's death, Sam crawled into bed with him. He kissed Dean, pressing against him until there wasn't any space between them, and he didn't let up until Dean responded. They made out, not a single word passing between them, bodies rocking together until they both came. When it was over, Sam broken down, crying, and Dean held him until he fell asleep.

Neither of them have ever mentioned that night again, nor talked about any of the other nights like that that followed in the years to come. The night they burned their dad's corpse and Dean fucked Sam in the backseat of the Impala. The week before Dean's deal came due and they had sex every single night, frantic and brutal, and the day he came back from hell. The day before Sam said yes to Lucifer, and then a couple more times since.

Most of the time, it boiled down to fear and grief and desperation. 

The thing that makes it complicated though isn't that they have sex sometimes. It isn't that Dean can't live without Sam, gets so caught up in Sam that he does things he shouldn't do.

What makes it complicated is that Dean is in love with Sam. Completely, irrevocably, unhealthily in love.

+

Two weeks after Dean stopped Sam from finishing the trials, Sam leaves his bed for more than a quick bathroom break for the first time.

He's still pale, but he's showered and shaved, and he can walk without needing Dean's help.

Sam sits down at the big wooden table in the library and eats the breakfast Dean made without protest. It's more than Dean has seen him eaten in long time, since way before the last trial, and it makes something in Dean's chest loosen. It feels like a small victory, seeing Sam up and about, slowly shaking off the trials.

"You feeling better?" Dean asks anyway, just to hear it from Sam.

Sam puts down his coffee mug, wiping over his lips with the back of his hand, and nods. "Yeah. Way better."

"How's the pain?"

"Okay," Sam says after a short moment, his head cocked a little to the side. "I feel mostly sore, really. Like I ran a marathon or something."

"I'll get you some ibuprofen," Dean offers, and gets up from the table.

"Dean," Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off with a look.

"You want more food, too? More coffee?" he asks, ignoring Sam's protests, and Sam sighs.

"Juice, if we have any," he says, and Dean nods.

When he returns a couple of minutes later with Sam's juice and a couple of pills, Sam has a newspaper spread out in front of him, eyes skimming the page.

He looks up at Dean, frowning, and waves his hand at the paper. "This is insane," he says. "Aliens? Government conspiracy theories?"

Dean shrugs, and hands Sam the pills. "People fell from the sky. People that say they're angels," he says, waiting for Sam to swallow before he passes over the glass of orange juice. 

"Still," Sam says. "The whole thing is pretty messy, huh?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah. Pretty much," he agrees. 

Sam drinks down half the content of the glass before setting it on the table and leaning back in the chair. "So. We gonna do anything about that?"

"No," Dean says, crossing his arms over his chest. He leans against the edge of the table and looks down at Sam. " _We_ are not doing a thing right now. It's not our job to clean up their messes."

"It kinda is," Sam says with a quirk of his lips, and he looks so much like the old Sam that Dean's chest aches a little. For a while, after the trials had started affected Sam, he'd thought Sam would never really recover, would never stop looking like death warmed over, getting worse with each day. He's still not okay, but he's getting stronger, putting on some of the weight he'd lost over the last weeks. Dean feels like he can breathe again, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

"We're not going anywhere until you're back on your feet," Dean says. "Castiel is trying to figure things out, Garth is helping, and he said he knows some other hunters who might as well. Kevin is translating the angel tablet to see if there's anything on there."

"Yeah, cause Metatron was stupid enough to leave clues for how to open the gates to heaven again on there," Sam says with a snort.

Dean shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. Let them deal with this."

"And we?"

"We stay put. And once you're better, we'll see. There's still other stuff – demons, monsters."

"Don't you think this is a bit more important right now?" Sam asks, waving his hand at the paper.

Dean looks at the head line – "Are Aliens Invading Earth?", it says, and Dean huffs – and shakes his head. "I'm done with all that crap. Angels and heaven, all of it."

"Castiel," Sam prompts.

"If he calls and needs our help, we can discuss it. But right now, you getting better is more important."

"Fine," Sam concedes. He picks up his glass again, takes a sip, but he looks tense, expression pinched.

"Sam," Dean starts, and Sam shakes his head.

"No, I get it."

"Do you?" Dean asks. "If I'd come a few seconds later, you'd be dead, Sam. Because of a bunch of lying feathery douchebags."

"Just Metatron."

"Oh, like Naomi was any better, with her crap? Like Castiel didn't go behind our backs, _again_?"

"Dean. He thought he was doing the right thing."

"Everyone always does and we always get stuck in the middle, and I'm sick of it," Dean says, voice harsher and louder than he intended.

"Because we haven't fucked up just as many times? _I_ haven't?" Sam asks, eyes narrowed, challenge clear in his voice. "You said it yourself, Dean. Ruby. Lucifer. Me being soulless. I keep fucking up, don't I? If you truly can forgive me, you can forgive Cas, too."

The words make Dean's stomach twist, a bile of guilt rising in his throat. He knows he'd been out of line, saying those things to Sam at the church, and the thought that they had almost been one of the last things he'd said to Sam makes him feel sick. 

He pushes away from the table, ignores Sam saying his name, and leaves.

+

"Are you pretending that's me?" Sam asks, when he tracks Dean down on the shooting range twenty minutes later.

Dean fires another shot, hitting the target bulls-eye. 

"Don't be stupid," he mutters. He reloads his gun, not turning around to look at Sam.

He feels the heat of Sam's body when he comes closer, one hand resting heavily on Dean's arm.

"Dean," he starts. "Come on, talk to me. Don't just walk out on me in the middle of a conversation."

"I don't want to talk about it," Dean replies, voice clipped. He lifts the gun, shouldering Sam away before taking another shot.

"Okay, we'll drop it. I get it, you're mad at me," Sam says, and he sounds so small, the way he always does when he's hurt.

Dean drops his arms, puts the gun down. "I'm not mad at _you_ ," he replies.

"No? Cause it sure looks like it from where I'm standing."

"Sam," Dean says, tone warning, and turns to look at Sam. "I'm not, okay? If anything, I'm mad at myself. Because I'm a freaking dick who said a bunch of things to you that I shouldn't have. And you apparently still don't _get_ it."

"Get what?" Sam asks, arms crossed and looking down at the floor. He looks like a kid in that moment, like the boy who used to come running to Dean when he was hurt or upset.

"What I said to you at the church. About you coming first, always. I meant that, Sam," Dean says. He cups Sam's face, tilts his head up until their eyes meet. "Sammy, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for saying all those things."

"You were right, though. I did a lot of stupid stuff."

"Oh, like I haven't?" Dean asks, and Sam shrugs, eyes downcast. "I've fucked up as many times as you have. Starting with just letting you go off to college and not talking to you for years."

Sam inhales slowly, and Dean tugs him forward.

"Sammy," he murmurs. "Look at me."

Sam does, and Dean leans up, almost has to get on his tip toes, and kisses Sam. He kisses Sam until Sam makes the tiniest, sweetest noise and parts his lips, kissing him back.

+

They fuck right there on the shooting range.

Dean thinks about stopping Sam several times, because Sam is still not recovered and he's not sure they should be doing this. Least of all in a cold, dark room that doesn't even have a bed.

But Sam's hands are digging into Dean's waist, and he's letting out these small moans when Dean kisses down his throat, bites the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet, and Dean can't help himself.

He presses Sam against one of the concrete beams, gets Sam's sweats down around his legs and undone his own jeans. He pushes them down along with his boxers, cock hard and leaking pre-come, and Sam pulls him back in, kisses him hard and messy.

"Fuck, Dean," he groans into Dean's mouth, and, "Please."

Dean kisses him back just as hard, rocks their bodies together before worming his hand between them and grabbing both of their dicks. Sam lets out the dirtiest, most perfect moan when Dean starts jerking them off, head thudding back against the wall.

It doesn't take long for either of them to come, a sticky mess between their stomachs. Dean slumps against Sam, buries his face in Sam's sweaty neck, and laughs.

They haven't done this in a long time. Not since before Purgatory, when both of them were so fucked up and lonely, nothing left in the world but each other.

Dean sighs, shifts even closer, his body holding up most of Sam's weight against the wall. He places an open-mouthed kiss against Sam's neck.

"So," Sam says into the silence, but he doesn't move, doesn't try to dislodge himself from between Dean and the wall.

Dean pushes away a little, hands cupping Sam's hips. "Let's go take a nap," he says, and when Sam gives a small, barely-there nod, Dean leans his head on Sam's shoulder for a moment and just breathes him in.

+

Three days later, Dean comes back from a grocery run to find Sam in the library, stacks of books on the table in a semi-circle.

The picture is so familiar that Dean has to smile, even though he knows Sam is probably researching heaven and angels and everything Dean doesn't want them to get involved with right now.

He clears his throat. "I'm back."

Sam looks up, startled. "Hey," he says. "Didn't hear you come in."

"Figured," Dean replies. 

Sam gives him a small, guilty smile. "Kevin called," he says as way of explanation.

"Any news?"

"Not really. He's been working on the translation, but so far there's nothing new. Garth checked in with him a couple of times, but it looks like they're kinda hitting a dead end with the angels."

Dean nods at the books. "And you?"

Sam licks his lips, shrugs. "Just reading," he says, and Dean gives him a look. "I'm not out there, getting involved. Just reading up on some stuff, Dean. It's not gonna hurt my recovery, okay?"

"Okay," Dean says and walks over to where Sam is sitting. He tilts Sam's face up with one hand on his jaw and leans down, kissing him, all sweet and soft and insistent.

"What?" Sam asks when they break apart.

Dean grins. "Keep reading. I'll go make lunch."

"Okay," Sam says, sounding confused, and Dean kisses him again, just because.

+

That night, he crawls on top of Sam and kisses him until they're both breathless and hard.

He undresses them both, unhurried, and then nudges Sam's legs apart, settling between them. He keeps kissing Sam while he prepares him slowly, fingers slippery with lube, listening to the small noises Sam makes while he fingers him open, the way he says Dean's name all desperate and needy.

When he slides into Sam, he takes his time, inch by inch, and then he fucks Sam like they have all the time in the world. He ignores Sam's pleas for more, harder, thrusts in with long, languid strokes instead, until Sam is writhing under him. His arms are propped on either side of Sam's head, their breaths mingling between them, and he kisses Sam, sweet and soft, again and again.

Sam comes untouched, heels digging into the flesh of Dean's ass and his head thrown back. 

"Sammy," Dean murmurs, and comes too, deep inside Sam. He collapses on top of Sam, the muscles of his arms feeling like jelly.

"Jesus," Sam murmurs after a couple of moments, still breathless.

Dean kisses his neck, his throat, his cheek. 

Sam laughs, breathless and happy. "Are you trying to kill me?" he asks, and Dean stills.

"No," he says, lips pressed to Sam's jaw. "No. Never."

Sam slides his arms around him then, holds him close, and Dean thinks maybe Sam finally gets it.

+

Dean is doing dishes in the kitchen, arms deep in suds, when Sam comes in, feet dragging against the floor.

Dean looks at him over his shoulder, quirks an eyebrow in question.

Sam returns the look and cocks his head to the side. "What's that smell?"

"Pie," Dean replies with a shrug and puts the last glass on the dish rack, before draining the water from the sink.

"Pie," Sam echoes. "You made pie? From scratch?"

"Shut up," Dean says, and picks up a towel. "Did you come in here just to comment on my baking skills?"

"Maybe," Sam says with a grin, and Dean shoots him a look. "Okay, fine. I think maybe I found something."

"Yeah? What?"

Sam joins him by the sink, looking around, and Dean points to the cupboard where he keeps the dishtowels with a sigh. 

"Well, I was thinking, Metatron casts the angels out of heaven, right? Closing the gates. So, as far as we know, the problem is that there's no way back in for the angels anymore."

"Right."

"What if there's still a way _out_ though?" Sam asks.

Dean picks up a plate, and frowns. "I'm not sure I'm following you."

"I figured maybe we should try to get Metatron out, instead of the angels back in," Sam explains.

Dean gives him a hard look, and Sam sighs. 

"Castiel and the others could try to get Metatron out, instead of the angels back in," he amends.

"Better," Dean agrees. "How?"

"He's still Kevin's archangel, technically. He might be able to summon him, with the right ritual."

"And you found one that you think might work," Dean asks, and it's not question. Sam nods.

"I think I did," he says, dropping the towel next to the sink. "Figured we could pass it on to Kevin and Castiel."

"Nothing more?"

Sam reaches for Dean's hand, wraps his fingers around his wrist, warm and strong. "Dean. I agreed," he says. "You're right. A week ago, I couldn't even leave the bed. I'm better, but I don't think I'm quite there yet."

"You're not," Dean agrees. "You can barely stay awake for more than five or six hours at a time before you're completely drained. You're restless when you do sleep, and you're far from having your full strength back."

"I know. I need a week or two more, at least," Sam agrees, and Dean looks at him, sees nothing but honesty on Sam's face.

"Good."

"Good," Sam echoes. "So I'll go call Kevin then?"

"Yeah. Call him," Dean says, and Sam smiles.

"Maybe the pie will be ready when I'm done," he says. "We could set up my laptop in your bed, watch a bad horror movie or two. Crack open that way too expensive bottle of whiskey you found in here weeks ago and have been hiding ever since."

"I was saving it for the right moment," Dean protests, and curses Sam for always knowing all of Dean's secrets.

Sam grins. "Well, pie, a bad movie, a bed, and you sounds like the perfect moment, if you ask me," he says, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Go make that stupid phone call. And then tell Kevin they better leave us alone for the rest of the week after that," he says. 

"Will do," Sam says. "Meet you in your room?"

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "Meet you there, Sammy."

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer".


End file.
